Frog Applause by Teresa Burritt for April 06, 2018

Is Arlo Guthrie for Philly even thou from Brooklyn and added to some bridge connection?

“Phlyarology is the study of nonsense; and a phlyarologist is one who studies nonsense — not, necessarily, one who speaks it.

The pursuit of phlyarology has a tendency to inspire a sense of the absurd. It’s quite common to find phlyarologists who are incredibly good at communicating nonsense."

The sounds a bit autobiographical. Apparently, Teresa couldn’t find any marauding phlyarologists around, so she became one.

Be 1.. B I N G O…..we have a winner, to the phylarologist!!!!

In bingo the letter I goes with the number 22 and can be called two ducks.

Phylarology is a noble profession, and essential to combat the increasing number of coproloquists

Phylarologists: better to see one, than be one. Far worse, to hear one.

We’re all word collectors. We began as soon as we learned to talk. I actually see some relevance in the words she uses. Many of her words seem to parallel something to do with this comic strip.

“Frog Applause” is reasonably above the fifth-grade reading level.

Phylarology stimulates my sesquipedelian proclivities.

It is the nature of the universe to provide perfect sense in the moment, but only in the moment. All other moments in time will be no more than chaos and perfect nonsense. Any study of the past or speculation of the future is going to be a study in absurdity, a forensic journey to reconstruct life, from either ashes or raw materials. Only by looking at the present moment may we understand either the past or the future, and in that understanding there is the perfected ignorance of either, and a perfectly nonsensical dismissal thereof.

I offer my services to anyone. Free, for Raleigh Coupons.

Even as the police arrest a mime, it’s required that the police must read them their rights to remain silent..

Voices in the blank? Fill in the blank with the first voice you hear.

Nonsense!

Looking for an example of a phlyarologist, I came upon Lewis Carroll, Douglas Adams, John Cleese and Peter Sellers among others; some of my favorite writers and actors; and of course Teresa herself. I’d bet that the FA readers also like them all very much. So I guess that makes us all phlyarologistphiles. So proud to be a member of such an unpronounceable group!

“Are you all sitting comftybold two square on your botty? Then I’ll begin …”

Once upon a time in a land of greens

Where the sky was silky soft

And full of colored dreams

Deep inside a rainbow

Lived Happiness Stan

In a small Victorian charabanc

Per a small Willie Wonka chorus: A little nonsense now and then is cherished by the wisest men.

I’m pretty phlya for (because I’m) an old white guy. Or something like that.

Ctrl-f politician – no matches. Weird.

Now, the fly was overwhelmed by this deep generosity of Stan’ll’s give, give, give of the foodage because all life sufferluff of the foodage. He look at Stan and said, “Is there anything I can reciprocale or doing the joy of return for your generosity for giving me food and stuffy?” Stan, “I’m looking for the other half of the moon and dangly, this is my folly. Show me where the missing half of that moon.” “I don’t know,” said the fly returly, “but I know someone who know. If only I were big enough to transporty most, I’d take you there myself, I would do this.” And Stan, having the possessy power of the magicold, ah, standit over, roll over the sleavy, wavely hand, hovery, hovery, hovery, hovery, and utter these magic wordly, “If all the flies were one fly, what a great enormous fly follolopper that would bold.” Oh, and there, incredible but hovery, hovery. Now, the fly recoil with these wordage, “Not only will I transport’n there, but I’ll see a deep’g joy of a songlode in your eardoaves, that I will do…”

My mind is so convulsed with torrential cheerfulness that fire pellets of screaming hot flames of joy are exploding all over me.

—Baby Face; Cats With Hands by Joe Martin

I know we’re supposed to be talking nonsense here, but I keep flashing on coprolites.

Now, like all real life experience stories, this also begins once a polly tito, and Happiness Stan, whose life evolved the ephemeral colour dreamy most, and his deep joy in this being the multicolour of the moon. Oh yes. His home a victoriana charibold, the four-wheel folloped ft-ft-ft out the back. Now, as eve on his deep approach, his eye on the moon. Alltime sometime deept joy of a full moon scintyladen dangly in the heavenly bode. But now only half! So, gathering all behind him the hintermost, he ploddy-ploddy forward into the deep complicadent fundermold of the forry to sort this one out.

.

Stanley Unwin

Upon the stage of life, we all sometimes play the fool.

And then we study it.

What fools we mortals be!